3 n the spring of 1970, Harriet Rosenstein began to interview Ruth Barnhouse about the four-month period Sylvia Plath spent at IMcLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts. Seventeen years earlier, in September 1953, Plath was recovering from a suicide attempt that occurred shortly after her summer internship at Mademoiselle maga- zine in New York City, and Barnhouse had taken over her treatment. After Plath’s release from McLean, she continued a course of therapy with Barnhouse resulting in a friendship that included social interac- tions and correspondence that went on until a week before Plath died on February 11, 1963. No other medical professional invited such inti- macy with Plath or formed a bond that bolstered the poet and enraged her husband, who considered himself her only worthy partner and collaborator. In Hughes’s poetry and letters, it is clear, especially in her last days, that he was still struggling for Plath’s heart and that even decades after her death, in Birthday Letters, he could no more let go of her than Plath could sever herself from Barnhouse, who, in turn, clung to Plath and responded to Rosenstein almost as a kind of surrogate for the relation- ship that ended with the poet’s suicide. The Barnhouse-Rosenstein collaboration began with the skeptical therapist interviewing the biographer about her motives and meth- ods, but this initial wariness soon segued into in-depth conversations, a word that seems more appropriate than interviews, since the two women seemed alike in sensibility and outlook. In fact, Rosenstein { 12 } Narrative { 13 } would go on to a thirty-five-year career as a licensed social worker with a private psychotherapy practice. Rosenstein recorded Barnhouse reading from Plath’s medical history and all the notes the therapist made about her patient’s case not only at McLean but in private sessions conducted after Plath’s release from McLean hospital. Barnhouse recommended key texts about depression and loss and arranged meetings between the biographer and suicidolo- gists and psychiatrists. Just before Rosenstein’s departure for England to do more interviewing for the Plath biography, Barnhouse entrusted the biographer with fourteen letters Plath had written to Barnhouse between 1960 and 1963. During this period Plath worked on her novel, The Bell Jar, creating a character, Dr. Nolan, based on Barnhouse. Barnhouse broke down while attempting to read the Plath letters to Rosenstein. In fact, only three of the letters were read aloud. The thera- pist, overwhelmed, began weeping and could not go on. She needed an alter ego, and the biographer served as the therapist’s only way of con- tinuing a relationship with Plath that at times had seemed simply too painful to bear. The letters, as Rosenstein put it in her court affidavit, expressed “extremities of feeling, thought and content.” The trauma of possession that had prompted Barnhouse to burn earlier Plath letters now returned, but with a difference. Now she believed she had found someone to preserve Plath’s legacy—someone apart from the coterie that protected Hughes and disparaged Plath. According to Rosenstein, biographer and therapist agreed that the letters would not be released during Barnhouse’s lifetime but would eventually become available to scholars and biographers as soon as those named in the letters were also deceased. For three years, beginning with the move to England in 1960, Plath struggled to overcome her misgivings about Hughes and raise a family, often presenting in letters to her mother only the cheerful side of the marriage. The couple had moved from Boston, where Plath had hoped her husband would find a new land in which to create great poetry. Instead Hughes had closed up, disparaging America and Americans, and returned to a Britain he had previously said was decadent and without a future. Yet Plath accompanied her husband to London, first, { 14 } Narrative and then to a country home. When Al Alvarez first visited the couple at their Chalcot Square flat in London, he noticed that Plath had receded into the background. Indeed, at first he did not recognize her as the poet he had published when he was employed as poetry editor at The Observer. Even worse, Ted’s friends seemed unable to empathize with Sylvia’s increasing feelings of isolation. Their incomprehension is best revealed in Dido Merwin’s malicious memoir included as an appen- dix to the Hughes-approved biography by Anne Stevenson. Rosenstein interviewed poet W. S. Merwin, then Dido’s husband, on April 15 and 16, 1974, and recorded his conviction that Plath had a “purely destruc- tive” influence on Ted Hughes. Merwin called her a “finagaler” and bet- ter at getting her way than Ted. In her notes, Rosenstein expressed her amazed response to Merwin’s dismissal of what the biographer called Hughes’s “flagrant, adolescent acting-out and up with Assia [Wevill].” Merwin said, “So what! Big deal.” And yet Merwin admitted he had never even met Assia Wevill, whose flagrant pursuit of Hughes was witnessed by Al Alvarez, who quoted to me from the journal he kept at the time. In such hostile company, Plath relied on Barnhouse as a lifeline. Plath’s mother, in the view of Plath and her therapist, was part of the problem, since Aurelia Plath had subordinated herself to her autocratic husband, Otto, and seemed not to fully take in the strains Plath expe- rienced herself as mother, poet, and wife, doing her best to accommo- date herself to a foreign land that lionized her husband. What Barn- house actually said about Aurelia Plath is not yet available, although it may be divulged if Harriet Rosenstein’s work is ever publicly released. We can, however, glean something of Barnhouse’s attitude toward Plath’s mother in her discussion of how women form a “negative image of femininity.” Speaking of another case, she mentions the “emotional incompetence of the mother who was unable to defend either herself or her daughter from male brutality.” Plath’s American friends supported her, and a few British women commiserated with her plight, but only Barnhouse understood the tra- jectory, the rise and fall, of Plath’s hopes for a new life, pinned so desper- ately on Hughes, her poetry, and her children. As Plath wrote in one of Narrative { 15 } her journals, she believed in Barnhouse “because she is a clever woman who knows her business & I admire her. She is for me ‘a permissive mother figure.’ I can tell her anything, and she won’t turn a hair or scold me or withhold her listening which is a pleasant substitute for love.” Nearing a complete collapse in her last days, Plath wrote to Barn- house, asking to stay with the therapist, who worried that the poet was approaching a crisis similar to the one that had resulted in her 1953 suicide attempt. In fact, Plath had alluded to her suicidal feelings when she said her state of mind was like the way she had felt before when she had done “that.” Her therapist knew what “that” meant but also ago- nized about what it would mean for her own marriage, and decided, in the end, not to invite Plath into her home. This was a stunning blow to Plath, who had already rejected her mother’s plea to come home from England. Unable to reject Plath outright, the therapist chose not to answer some of her patient’s letters, thus setting up a lifelong train of regret. When Rosenstein showed Plath’s letters to her therapist to Karen Kukil, the esteemed editor of Plath’s journals, Kukil concluded Plath had shared personal details about Hughes and her children with a profound honesty that went far beyond what she felt able to convey to others, no matter how close they were to her. Barnhouse confided to Rosenstein that this harrowing last period in Plath’s life continued to trouble the therapist, who believed she had let the poet down. This feeling that some kind of intervention, some change in the terms of Plath’s life, might have saved her is part of what has propelled so many biographers, beginning with Rosenstein, to get the story of Plath’s life right. Barnhouse looked to Rosenstein for a kind of salvation or redemption, as Plath herself had sought a savior. The ironies and parallels and plights of patient, therapist, and biographer converge in a triangulated tragedy that is only now emerging. 4 he had never wanted to live in the country! It was his idea. What was a home to him? No more, it seemed, than a waystation. When Sshe had met him, he was a scruffy ex-student, still hanging around Cambridge, not getting on with much, really, except a dillentantish dabbling in poetry. He had a great voice, one that he worked hard on perfecting, so that he could hold a room with his verse. Ben Sonnen- berg became so rapt in listening to Ted Hughes that he fell off his chair, and as Ted picked him up, still talking, Ben felt the vibrations of Ted’s voice “running down his arm.” It was a voice “as deep as England,” Son- nenberg recalled, quoting from the famous Hughes poem, “Pike.” Plath was not the only one Hughes could hypnotize with his voice. But washing his hair and suiting up for a career seemed to Hughes like a sell-out. But of what, really? She had to ask him. Wasn’t he, in fact, selling himself short as a poet by keeping it all to himself and his mates? He shrugged and shuffled and wore a smile that lighted up his darkly handsome looks.